The Art Of Caring
by Sherlockian Dreams
Summary: John takes the time to care for Sherlock, after a disastrous case nearly ends in tragedy. Part of the letswritesherlock challenge. This challenge entails Johnlock, so this story has a teensy bit of this at the end (though I generally don't write it). Let me know what you think!


Letswritesherlock Challenge 1: The Art Of Caring

**Disclaimer: I do not own these amazing characters. They belong to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle and in this case, the brilliant writers of the BBC Sherlock, Steven Moffat and Mark Gatiss. **

_A/n: so this is basically challenge 1 of letswritesherlock. It has a teensy bit Johnlock at the end, but that is part of the challenge description._

_I hope you like it xxx_

After a nearly disastrous case, Sherlock and John share a tense taxi ride back to Baker Street. With emotions running high, they finally arrive back at 221B, and then John explodes.

"IDIOT!" Everything. Every emotion, every fear and worry and pain shoots through his voice.

"I had-," Sherlock begins, voice, unusually quiet, weak: he was obviously in pain.

"You're an idiot!"

"There was no choice-,"

"There's _always_ a bloody choice,"

"There was none foreseeable,"

John slams open the door furiously. A rush of cold air washes over his face, which confused him for a second. Cold meant Mrs Hudson hadn't been in. Where was she? He hadn't seen her for the whole day. Or last night.

Still, he was too angry to complain, or think straight. His heart was still lurching painfully in his throat. He felt like he was about to be sick.

"I'm sorry, John," Sherlock stood cautiously on the threshold, leaning against the doorframe, peering in anxiously. He could see John's anger, his fear, his slightly trembling hands. He knew John was furious with him. Knew he was still feeling the shock.

Sherlock knew, and he was watching him warily. As if he was a bomb about to explode.

To be honest, John _felt_ like he was a bomb about to explode.

He turned away from Sherlock and rubbed a wary hand over his face, keeping his emotions in check. Breathing deeply. Telling himself his (idiot) flat mate was fine.

_He was okay._

Yet John still needed to check him. He had had to help Sherlock up the stairs, and he most certainly had _not_ imagined the look of pain that contorted the detective's face whenever he moved.

He had been so scared: so sure that he had lost him. The thought made his blood turn cold, washing over him in wave after wave of fear.

When John closed his eyes, he still saw Sherlock lying motionless on the hard stone floor. There had been blood. There had been fear. Broken bones and his slight, heart wrenching, whimper of pain when Lestrade pulled him up.

John hadn't been there. He _should_ have been there. He still remembered how numb he had felt, watching helplessly through the camera. Lestrade's screams for him to 'get over here now!' Down the phone.

He should have been there.

He suddenly rounded on him.

"You could have been killed!" He shouted, his anger and fear breaking through in his voice. Sherlock stared back at him levelly, obviously assessing his options, his safety at talking without the army doctor flying off the handle.

"I had it under con-," he began.

"Don't you bloody dare say you had it under control because you didn't, you obviously didn't!" John roared, face flushed. Was this anger at Sherlock or himself? He had no idea. All he knew was he was furious. And Sherlock was to blame for most of it.

"I'm sorry," he looked genuine this time, eyes low, face careful, "I really am. I miscalculated the risks. If I had known, you would have been with me," whether he was saying it to console him or being actually genuine (Sherlock didn't apologise to anyone), John didn't know.

"You could...Have been killed," He seethed, passing a hand over his eyes again. _Deep breaths, deep breaths. In, out, in..._

"I'm fine John, I'm okay," John looks up, watching as he moves a little further into the room, his face set: lips a tight sharp line. He was in a lot of pain. The careful shuffling, the tight grip on the doorframe.

"You are a bloody idiot," John grumbled, "you better not do this again, you bastard. Not without me being there,"

He nodded solemnly, ignoring the derogatory comment (John didn't call him that very often), "I promise,"

He nodded, taking deep breaths through the nose, hoping he was being genuine, otherwise he was dead, "you better not be lying," calming down, his world was still spinning.

He'd come so close to loosing everything.

The doctor went over to the detective, guided him gently to the sofa ( the grip on his arm was painfully tight) forced him to sit down; taking hold of his wrist, which he let him do, not fighting him or pushing him off like he normally did. That either meant he was trying to console him, or it hurt him too much to fight.

He held it delicately, and gently pressed his fingers into his wrist. He felt the bone. It moved slightly and Sherlock exhaled sharply, shudderingly, in response. John raised his head to glare heatedly at him, "Idiot," He told him passionately.

He flexed it slightly, and Sherlock winced this time, brows furrowed, lips tight.

"That's not sprained you bloody idiot," John hissed, "that's broken,"

"I'm fine," Sherlock muttered, not convincing him in the slightest, breathing dangerously shallow.

"They could have killed you," knees still felt slightly weak the thought, made him feel faint, cold and numb inside. He squeezed his hand.

_Breathe. Breathe. He's fine._

John had felt like shooting those bloody arseholes who had done that to him. Unfortunately, they needed to be questioned, and jailed for the murder they'd committed. The case Sherlock had solved today.

He looked up at the idiot again, took in his swollen, cut lip, puffy left eye, and then his nose. Nothing broken, everything face- wise intact. It didn't stop him from shooting Sherlock another glare.

The detective began to stand up carefully.

John hissed, hands immediately restraining him.

"Sit down," He commanded sharply, feeling himself slip slightly into _army doctor mode_, as Sherlock called it.

He quirked his eyebrow at him derisively, obviously detecting it too. But he sat again, which was good.

"Arms up," John instructed again. He did so (as much as he could) sighing loudly, showing his irritation.

"Idiot," John told him again, more softly this time, before unbuttoning his shirt, exposing Sherlock's chest.

Bare skin, smooth, ridiculously pale, unblemished. Slight indent of lean muscle. Bruising, mottled black. Flowering like ink drops on parchment. He sighed, gently probing the detective's chest with the tips of his fingers. Felt him wince, breath shuddering, just below his third rib. John pressed down a little. He groaned.

"God dammit, John," he grumbled, breathlessly, "do you really...need to press that hard?"

The doctor promptly ignored him, probing his rib some more; then gritted his teeth, hating the pain he saw in Sherlock's suddenly expressive face.

"Three broken ribs," He said angrily, though the hurt and fear in his voice completely softened the tone, "you got off lucky, if you ask me,"

John pulled away, fingertips trailing softly: noticing Sherlock's stiff posture. He seemed to have stopped breathing almost, face set.

"What?" Self conscious, "do they hurt?"

His eyes flickered downwards for a moment, seemingly assessing the question, long eye lashes brushing his cheek.

"Yes," he said in a strained voice: a way that made John suspect that he wasn't being entirely honest with him. Though of course he would have expected the ribs to hurt. The way they had been kicking him... John still paled at the thought.

"I'll get you some painkillers, hang on,"

"But I solved the case," he added, as an afterthought, as John rummaged in the kitchen for the painkillers, sounding very pleased with himself, even if the pain in his voice was tangible.

"Yes, yes well done, you're the smartest person in the universe, now can you please just rest? And sit still, I need to check your ribs again,"

Sherlock began to sigh deeply, but it was cut short. John raised an eyebrow at him, "yeah, it's gonna hurt for the next four weeks or so,"

Sherlock settled for a irritated expression this time, rather than anything physical.

John thrust two painkillers and a glass of water in Sherlock's hands and then knelt down in front of him, sliding his hands across the detective's bare chest, feeling gently around his ribs more thoroughly than before. God his skin was so soft; John began to have difficulty concentrating, and had to start his check again three times because of how distracting it was. He checked for more broken bones, a ruptured diaphragm, Pneumothorax, _anything_ else. His probing fingertips found nothing. Just the three broken ribs. And they were clean breakages, as far as John could tell (Sherlock refused to go to the hospital).

He breathed another sigh of relief and forced himself to moved away, both irritated and relieved with Sherlock at the same time. Idiot. Stupid git.

Sherlock was stock still again, seemingly struggling with something other than breathing. John placed the back of his hand against Sherlock's forehead, the other hand taking his uninjured wrist, checking his pulse. Making sure everything else was normal. He counted the gentle throbbing, eyes on the clock, feeling the minute slip away: soft skin against his fingers (the only time he ever got to touch Sherlock).

"You should still go to the hospital you know," John murmured distractedly.

"I don't need them, I have a doctor," Sherlock said, "_my_ doctor,"

John lost his place in counting. _His doctor._ The thought warmed him. The only person Sherlock trusted to care.

He cleared his throat, and began again, this time in silence.

"I'm going to wrap your wrist up," John told him finally, when the minute was up, drawing away and going to fetch the kit from the kitchen, "and those ribs,"

"Oh right," distaste was thick in his voice, relaxing again,"will I still be able to play?"

Play the violin he presumed? (Probably).

"Possibly," beckoned for his hand, which Sherlock placed obediently in his lap. He smiled at him softly, and set to work bandaging him up, twisting it thrice around his wrist, twice diagonally over his thumb, then a little further down. He tied it neatly, and flexed his wrist. Sherlock's face remained impassive, blue, crystal eyes watching his face, "but at least rest it for a few days- is that ok?" John added, flexing his wrist again. Sherlock nodded.

He patted his fingers, smiled, put the tape back in his kit, and then brought out the anti sceptic wipes.

"Stay still," He breathed: touched his angry cuts and felt him squirm.

"That stings," he grumbled. John continued, applying a little ice to his swollen eye and to the black splotches on his chest, ignoring his complaints, and then wiped the blood from his nose and around his mouth softly. He did all this with all the care and attention he could give. He then brought out a new roll of bandage, and placed his hand against Sherlock's chest.

"Breathe in for me," he said softly, "as much as you can,"

Sherlock's heart was beating wildly, and John wondered why. His pulse had been normal, as far as he could tell. Still, Sherlock took as much of a deep breath as he could.

John tenderly wrapped the coarse, white material around the detective's chest, making sure it was in the right place.

"Breathe out,"

Sherlock did so. The bandage was pulled taught. John took the opportunity to slide his hands once more around his chest, smoothing the material, enjoying the warmth against his palm; then he smiled.

"There," He said finally, feeling his doctoring was complete, "all better," He tried to glare, but he thought it came out more as a half- hearted smile.

Then he went to slip away, knowing he was enjoying touching him _far_ too much than he should. His skin was so warm. So soft and smooth against John's fingers.

But Sherlock stopped him, catching his wrist.

"Don't go John," he gazed up at him softly, his fingers urgent on John's skin.

John's brows furrowed, confused.

"Sherlock what's-?"

He didn't have time to finish his sentence, for suddenly, Sherlock's hand was on his cheek, soft, strong fingers, trailing across his jaw, tilting his head down slightly.

The detective leant up quickly.

He kissed John. Gently, softly, with so much _feeling_ and _emotion_. His lips moving on John's. His hand in his air, pulling and stroking and _holding_.

And then it was gone, and Sherlock's forehead was cool against his. He sighed against Sherlock's cheek, heart fluttering weakly.

"Thank you, John," Sherlock whispered, his breath ghosting across John's face. His soft lips found the edges of John's once more, kissing him sweetly, before he sighed, "you have no idea how long I have wanted to do that,"

There was no fear, no worry in that baritone voice. Just confidence, rough and almost breathless. John could hardly think straight. So he didn't.

His fingers wound into those soft, dark curls, pulling him closer, unable to stop now. Unable to pull away. He deepened the kiss, tasting Sherlock's lips. Like tea and comfort and home. It was perfect. It was something John had never thought would ever happen.

"You have no idea how long I have wanted to do that either," he whispered back, grinning against Sherlock's lips, before pulling him under once again.

Their first kiss. A kiss that was soft and emotional. A kiss that was perfect.

_ A/n: a review or two would be Lovely, let me know what you think! X_


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